Darkwalker on Moonshae, page 8
The prince managed to tuck his head before he landed, but he crashed into a rocky patch of ground with enough force to stun him.
Arlen’s charge struck the second Firbolg with brute force. The point of his lance sheared through the monster’s chest and erupted from its back in a shower of blood. As the charge carried him past, the warrior dropped the lance in order to retain his seat, but he instantly drew his sword and looked about.
The Firbolg behind him collapsed, but the one that had struck down Tristan faced the other riders with upraised club. Arlen saw Daryth edge his mount between the Firbolg and Robyn, and he saw the Calishite’s sword lash out and cut the Firbolg’s hip. At the same time, the club smashed down, striking Daryth on the shoulder and knocking him headlong from the saddle.
In an instant, Pawldo and Robyn thundered past the Firbolg, but the pair quickly reined in their horses and turned. Daryth lay motionless near the Firbolg, while Tristan, moaning, struggled to a sitting position. Bellowing ferociously, the Firbolg that had struck them down turned to confront the riders, ignoring the hounds that raced toward its back.
Robyn stared breathlessly at the monster, her eyes wide and her heart pounding. The heavy cudgel she had carved seemed like a pathetic stick in her hand. Pawldo raised his bow and sent an arrow darting into the Firbolg’s chest, but the creature plucked it free and threw it to the ground as it would a small thorn.
Just then the hounds struck the Firbolg from behind like an onrushing landslide. As the monster stumbled and turned back to face this new attack, Arlen urged his horse forward. Striking from behind, he forced his blade deep into the enemy’s back, hoping to cut into a vital organ. Another arrow from Pawldo flew over the warrior’s head, striking the Firbolg in the back of its neck.
The monster’s club smashed into one of the dogs, killing the hound instantly, but the weight of the others, plus the damage of the sword wound, forced the Firbolg to its knees. Instantly the dogs dragged it to the ground, biting and tearing in a frenzy of bloodlust.
Several feet away, Tristan attempted to climb to his feet, but the world began to spin madly and he had to sit back down. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around.
A bellow of rage caused him to look over his shoulder, and his stomach knotted with terror. Another Firbolg, one they had not seen before, was crashing through the enclosing pines only a few yards away. The monster’s club was held high, and its bloodshot eyes glimmered with malice.
Tristan quickly saw that his companions were all occupied and too far away to intervene. So, praying for the best, he groped for his sword. But the dizziness kept him from grasping his weapon. The Firbolg, sensing the vulnerability of his enemy, crept forward slowly, his club raised, ready to smash the prince into the ground. Through the haze in his vision, Tristan vaguely saw that the weapon was studded with rusty spikes. He closed his eyes to block out the sight, hoping it might go away.
“Stop!” Robyn’s cry pierced the air like the clarion call of a battle horn.
Something glimmered and shook along the ground, or was it simply imagination? The prince was not certain, but it looked as if the ground itself had begun to throb. The lunging Firbolg paused, confusion and fear at the strange happening clouding its gaze.
Wide-eyed, Tristan saw the trees and bushes around the Firbolg bend fantastically, reaching for the monster and closing hard curls of wood around its huge limbs. The creature uttered a bellow of frustration, and perhaps fear, as in moments the supple limbs held the creature fast.
The pine boughs and sapling trunks wrapped the Firbolg’s limbs tightly. The tip of a small pine encircled the giant’s neck three or four times. The entire might of the earth was behind the grasping wood, so the creature could barely squirm.
Robyn gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, but then spurred her horse and galloped toward the prince, whose own limbs still refused to cooperate. He stared in amazement, looking from Firbolg to Robyn and back. She reined in beside him and leaped to the ground, helping him to stand.
“How …?” he gasped.
“I don’t know!” she responded, turning to stare at the imprisoned Firbolg. The monster struggled to free itself, but was clasped tight by the knotted limbs and branches.
Tristan grasped the pommel of Robyn’s saddle, but could not lift himself. He shook his head, groaning as the pounding in it grew infinitely worse.
Daryth still lay motionless, but the prince could see no blood on him. Little Pawldo was rapidly releasing arrows with enthusiasm and precision into the other two Firbolgs who were fast approaching. Several arrows sprouted from the chest of one, but did little more than annoy the creature.
Tristan glanced toward the notch and was relieved to see that the other Firbolgs had not arrived, though he knew that they would reach the narrow pass soon.
Arlen, Tristan saw, stood over the motionless form of the Firbolg he and the dogs had just slain. The old warrior studied the approach of the pair.
“Fly, my prince!” he called to Tristan, running in his direction. Robyn came up behind him and boosted Tristan into the saddle of her own mount.
“Go! You got us into this—now don’t make it worse!” Arlen’s visage was fierce.
Tristan, his control returned, saw a look of frantic appeal in Robyn’s eyes. Without consideration for his own safety, he urged the mount toward the motionless figure of Daryth.
“Damn!” grunted Arlen, as he strode forward to face the two advancing Firbolgs. The pair closed upon the warrior, wicked grins distorting their bestial features as they approached what they considered an easy kill.
Tristan slid to the ground at his friend’s side, staggering slightly but retaining his balance. Robyn joined him in an instant, and they lifted the Calishite’s head from the ground. The eyelids flickered and opened, but Daryth, his black eyes sunken in his head, immediately shut them again and groaned in pain.
“For the kings of Corwell!”
The old battle-cry resounded through the valley, and Tristan looked up in time to see Arlen charge the nearest of the Firbolgs. The man’s sword darted deep into the creature’s belly, and he nimbly ducked the violent swing of the huge club. Again he thrust, and the blade struck home, and again he ducked the savage counterstroke.
But now the other Firbolg leaped into the fray.
Arlen ducked another swing, and thrust home what proved to be a mortal wound against his original opponent, piercing upward through the savage heart. The Firbolg dropped like a felled tree, but before Arlen could recover his sword, a heavy club struck him squarely in the temple. Arlen’s skull caved in under the fearsome blow, and his head snapped sideways as his neck broke. The old warrior collapsed over the body of the Firbolg he had just killed.
Robyn screamed in terror, but Tristan stared numbly at the scene, murmuring, “No, no, no, no …”
The prince suddenly realized that Robyn was standing by his side, holding his arm. A strange sense of peace flowed through him, and he raised his sword to face the oncoming giant.
Suddenly a black shadow flashed across the prince’s vision. A feathered whirlwind struck the Firbolg full in the face, tearing with sharp talons and curved beak. Before the monster could react, the shadow broke away and climbed into the air. Astonished, the prince saw that a huge black falcon had joined the fight.
And then, from nowhere, a sound like the whooshing of a strong wind split the air over the prince’s head, and a red arrow slashed toward the Firbolg to thunk solidly into its throat. Giving a gurgling gasp the monster stumbled, clutching at the thick shaft protruding from its throat. Without another sound, it toppled forward, thudding heavily to the ground at Tristan’s feet.
The mistletoe rustled, spreading apart to allow the great white head to emerge. The head shook, and a satiny mane fluttered through the air and came to rest upon the snowy neck. The branches of mistletoe snapped as the rest of the powerful body emerged from the shady bower.
Hooves, shanked with fur also white as snow, stepped gingerly among the wildflowers, crushing none, as the creature walked to the nearby pool. Bending his neck downward until the long horn broke the surface into a series of ripples, the unicorn drank deeply. Still sleepy, Kamerynn the unicorn raised his head and looked around the grove. The grasses underfoot tasted sweet, and he ate heartily of the most succulent grasses. The beams of brilliant sunlight penetrated the leafy canopy in several places, creating dazzling shafts of yellow.
Slowly, the unicorn grazed and drank, recovering his strength after the long sleep. The goddess had awakened him for a purpose, he knew, and that purpose would no doubt require strength and endurance. With majestic grace, the animal moved through the thick patches of clover.
Suddenly, the waters of the Moonwell swirled, whispering slightly. Kamerynn stared at the milky pool until he understood his task. The unicorn raised his head and trotted toward the pristine and pastoral forests of Myrloch Vale. After several minutes, Kamerynn began to canter, and then to gallop. Soon he raced like a ghost through winding pathways. All the lesser beasts shrank from his path at his thundering approach. His ivory horn held high, and his mighty hoofs carefully avoiding the rarer plants, the unicorn raced to answer the call of the Earthmother.
he black horse galloped quickly toward him, so fast that Grunnarch wondered briefly whether the red-robed rider intended to trample him. At the last moment, the rider reined in, flashing his king a tight smile. With a flourish, Laric, Captain of the Bloodriders, dismounted.
“What kept you?” demanded the Red King. “The council will begin without us!”
“I was inspecting my company,” commented Laric coolly. The captain regarded the king boldly, subtly challenging him. Angrily, Grunnarch turned away. Damn Laric, anyway! It’s too bad the man was such a good leader of horsemen—Grunnarch could not afford to be without his services, or he would have dismissed Laric from his command years ago. Yet no other man could be expected to lead the Bloodriders with Laric’s flair and daring.
A servant stepped forward, taking the reins of the foaming black horse, and leading it toward the camp of the Red King’s army. Laric ambled toward the king with maddening calm.
“Do you think there’ll be war?” asked the captain, slowly licking his lips.
“It’s certain,” grunted Grunnarch, cheered by the reminder of the night’s occasion. They were to meet in the hall of Thelgaar Ironhand to plan the season’s campaign.
Laric reached the king’s side, and now Grunnarch paused. The king turned and looked at the scene spread below him and could not help but be pleased.
The masts of hundreds of longships bristled from the waters of Iron Bay. Upon the bleak shoreline, and extending along the valley floor for several miles inland, sprawled the tents, stables, and grounds of a massive military encampment.
Rising above the masts and the tents stood Iron Keep, the bleak and towering fortress of Thelgaar Ironhand, Grunnarch and Laric’s current destination. Tall granite walls stared down upon rocky ground, and many towers climbed from within the forbidding walls. The pennant of Thelgaar, a crimson dragon emblazoned upon a black banner, flew from the highest tower. Fluttering proudly from lower towers were the symbols of other kings of the northmen, kings who were Thelgaar’s guests. The scarlet sword on the banner of Grunnarch the Red, the blue whale of Raag Hammerstaad, and a half dozen banners of lesser kings, all proclaimed an unprecedented gathering of the northmen.
Gray skies glowered over the fortress, and wind lashed at the surface of the harbor, as the kings of the northmen and their chief henchmen prepared for council.
The two northmen climbed the winding stone stairway that led to a gaping doorway in the granite face of the fortress. They created an interesting contrast—men of the same race, yet the king was tall and broad, with a fair complexion and a flowing yellow beard. The captain was short and dark, and walked in a slouch that accentuated his small stature. Yet, should an observer study their eyes, he might come away with the feeling that Laric was by far the more dangerous of the two men. There was something unfeeling, and vaguely inhuman, in his black and emotionless gaze.
“This way, my lords,” smiled a buxom wench as the pair passed from the twilight to the bright torchlight of the keep. The woman, swaying suggestively beneath a colorful frock, led them around a corner and into a vast courtyard. Grunnarch had the feeling that she had been ordered to show off Thelgaar’s might, for she took them on a roundabout route that passed through huge barracks, high ramparts, and thick walls. The Iron Keep was, indeed, impressive.
Finally, the woman showed them into the huge and smoky hall. From the look of the place, the festivities had been going on for some time. The hall was not warm but was brightened by the glow from a huge blaze, laid in a long hearth. The massive fireplace held no less than four tree trunks, sending a hellish glow flickering throughout the chamber. Huge oaken tables, laden with food and drink, lined the room. Hundreds of men sat along the tables, drinking and feasting as the deepening gloom of night settled outside the fortress.
Grunnarch and Laric sat at a long bench, near the men of Raag Hammerstaad. The Red King reached for a massive leg of greasy meat, and tore off a chunk with his teeth, ignoring the juices running through his beard.
“Good to see you,” grunted Raag, wiping a smear of ale from his mustache. “Things will start soon—after our host is properly seated.”
Grunnarch grunted a response, turning to regard the form of Thelgaar barely visible through the smoke at the end of the hall.
Serving wenches brought more ale, and slaves stoked the fire, as the mood in the chamber grew raucous. The smells of cooked meat, spilled ale, and woodsmoke reeked in the chamber. As the banquet wore on, the odors of vomit and stale sweat added their pungency to the air. Many of the revelers collapsed, unconscious, at the table. Others chased and caught unwilling wenches, having their way beneath the tables or in any other unclaimed space.
Finally, the festivities drew to a close and the Council of Kings began.
Thelgaar the Invincible, mightiest king of the northmen, and host of this gathering, rose to his feet, and the room gradually grew silent. An impressive man, even at his advanced age, Thelgaar took his time in examining his guests. His creased face, hidden behind a flowing white beard, showed no expression as he began to speak.
“My guests … my countrymen. We stand gathered in a mighty throng. An army, and a fleet, of heroic proportions has gathered unbidden at my doorstep. This is a force capable of making war, or sustaining peace.”
Grunts and grumbles of confusion rose from the northmen at the king’s last words. Peace was a subject not much in attendance at this gathering.
“Hear me!” roared Thelgaar, and immediately the noise ceased. “We have claimed many parts of these fair islands as our own. We have conquered some places, and coexisted elsewhere with the native Ffolk, until the Moonshae Islands, together, boast a people proud and prosperous—a people that need bow down before no foreign king!
“And now, again, we would embark upon a season of war. With our combined might, we could strike anywhere in the islands, and our triumph would be insured. One more kingdom of the Ffolk would fall before us, and the invincible tide would advance yet further.
“But I say, my people, that this road is the wrong one for us to follow!” A puzzled murmur began to growl throughout the huge chamber.
“With this secure base to operate from, let us prepare our ships for trade. Are we not the greatest sailors in the world? Our vessels can carry goods from any realm known to man, to any other realm. And we shall profit handsomely.
“Let this be the road to our future!”
Gasps of astonishment, mingled with cries of outrage, sounded, as Grunnarch and Raag leaped to their feet, together with many other enraged northmen. “Women’s words!” “War!” and many other, less polite, phrases were roared.
Grunnarch leaped to the table, scattering mugs and platters as he hoisted his broad battle-axe over his head. He bellowed for the attention of his countrymen, and gradually the northmen turned their eyes to the fierce, yellow-bearded figure.
“The words of Thelgaar are the words of an old man—a man who has lost the spirit of the warrior! Our destiny leads us to the conquest of the Moonshaes, and fate has given us the tool to fulfill that destiny. Not in the ages of our children, or our grandchildren, but now!”
Grunnarch turned a full circle to regard the others in the room. His words, insolent and treasonous, would have started a brawl, had not he voiced the opinions of so many in the room.
“I say we sail to war before the season grows stale! My scouts have reported to me in detail of the kingdom of Corwell, scarce a hundred leagues south of here. This is a rich and mighty kingdom, yet with the force gathered here today, we could take it! Once Corwell falls, the realms of the Ffolk will have been cut in half, and the rest of the Moonshaes will be ours for the taking!”
Raucous cries of agreement arose from the gathering. The noise gradually coalesced into a single cry: “War! War!” in a chant that filled the vast chamber. Weapons, fists, and boots pounded a martial beat that intensified to a fever pitch. Only gradually did the northmen realize that Thelgaar had stood again, and slowly the tumult ceased enough that the old king could be heard.
“If such is your wish, I cannot stop you. But know this: you shall sail to war without the ships and fighting men of Thelgaar Ironhand!”
Even as the Firbolg’s lifeless body crashed to the ground, Tristan sprinted across the rocky ground to kneel beside his friend and teacher. No second glance was needed to tell him that Arlen was dead. The Prince of Corwell stood and stared numbly at the body of his old friend and mentor. He felt curiously unmoved—as if he should react strongly, but could not summon the tears.
“Look!” cried Robyn, and the prince followed her pointing finger.
A scarlet cloak billowed from a clump of trees across the valley. With a closer look, the prince saw it was worn by a rider on a huge black horse. The mighty steed galloped toward them, and when Tristan saw the huge longbow across the rider’s lap, he knew that this was their benefactor. Quickly the prince stole a look at the rocky notch above them. There was still no sign of the other band of Firbolgs.
